


Five times an object spoke to Percy (and once he's glad it didn't)

by Jadesfire



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Percy & Grog Friendship, five things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 08:02:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9984305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadesfire/pseuds/Jadesfire
Summary: also: Five times Grog and Percy had a bit of a chat.~Rationally, of course, Percy knows that objects can't talk. Wood doesn't have vocal cords. Stones don't have mouths. And metal doesn't have a voice. So the words aren't technically coming from the gun. He knows that. It's just that whenever he fires it, whenever he thinks about taking aim at one of the people whose names are marked on the barrels, the voice comes to him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Initially inspired by [this moment](https://youtu.be/EikRMYRf5-Y?t=2663) in Episode 36 and then by [this exchange](https://youtu.be/N7DuwqJtCGI?list=PLqTT_VuffgDP0I6accl0jP5p3kxBRPVPa&t=9015) in Episode 85. And finally inspired by Grog and Percy's friendship being adorable to write.

**1\. The List**

Rationally, of course, Percy knows that objects can't talk. Wood doesn't have vocal cords. Stones don't have mouths. And metal doesn't have a voice. So the words aren't technically coming from the gun. He knows that. It's just that whenever he fires it, whenever he thinks about taking aim at one of the people whose names are marked on the barrels, the voice comes to him.

_Vengence_

After all, that's why he built it in the first place. Something powerful and elegant, more likely to kill than a knife or an arrow. Something that would be entirely his and let him take his own revenge, his way. And if the price to pay for that is the whispering in his mind every time he puts a hand on the grip, then that's something he can live with.

 

_("That was pretty sick what you did back there," Grog will mime Percy moving his gun from Delilah to his own head and back again. "Like, seriously. So impressed."_

_"Thank you," he will say weakly, still reconciling himself to the image of his hard work slowly dissolving in acid._

_"I mean, you'd remembered that it was broken, right?" Grog will ask. And Percy will, for the first time that day, smile.)_

 

* * *

 

**2\. Craven Edge**

For a week, he sleeps on it, literally as well as figuratively. He's in one of the guest rooms of Whitestone Castle, his old room not feeling his own any more, and he's closer to the rest of his friends this way. Each night from under the thin mattress, the sword whispers in his ear, promising him battles, strength, victory. In a strange way, it's familiar, and comfortable if not comforting. He's almost sorry when it falls silent.

A few days before Winter's Crest, he finds Grog in the barracks, terrifying some new recruits to the castle guard and waving a long sword at them.

"I didn't think you liked swords."

"Less likely to take a head off than the great axe," Grog explains when he takes a break, leaning against the wall Percy is sitting on. "But no, generally, they're piddling little things. Could use it as a toothpick."

Percy realises that Grog's 'toothpick' is the dragonslayer longsword they picked up in the Vesper Timberland. It's lighter than the sword Percy took from Silas, and probably easier to wield, not to mention carry. And if anyone can handle a bloodthirsty weapon, it's got to be Grog.

Of course, Grog likes to feel he's got a bargain, or at least a clever trade. Percy clears his throat.

"It does look a little small for you," he says. "Maybe you should be looking to upgrade."

 

_(Later, Grog will ask Percy, "Why'd you let me have it? You knew it was a shifty bastard."_

_Percy will sigh, not quite able to look up from his notes. "I knew. And later, I knew we'd need all the powers we could get to defeat the dragons, so I thought any weapon was a good weapon. But at first?" He'll look up, then, half-over and half-through his glasses so that to Grog, his eyes will look strange and far away. "At first, I think I hoped that you would be less susceptible than me, and that a mind more resilient than my own would be able to wield it without corruption."_

_Grog will give him a wise nod of understanding, and Percy will smile, lifting his head so that Grog will be able to see him properly._

_"I thought you'd be okay because you're a better man than me."_

_"Ah," Grog will say. "Of course.")_

 

* * *

 

**3\. Residuum Pieces**

It's nice, having the hallways of the castle full of laughter and noise again. As they all tumble in from the Winter's Crest celebrations, Percy sees the same look on Cassandra's face that he knows is on his own, and he hangs back as the others make their way up to the guest wing.

"I didn't get you anything. Sorry." He's had enough beer to be fuzzy around the edges. "But just having you back-"

She waves off the rest of the sentence that he's not sure how he would have finished anyway. "It's fine. Please." Neither of them can quite push past the awkwardness of five years and a strict upbringing, but she holds out her hand to him, and smiles when he takes it. "I have something to show you."

Whitestone has more secrets than just the ziggurat beneath the city, and the Castle contains most of them. All the de Rolo children knew about the secret doors and passages, the warren of hidden tunnels that mirror the public ones. Cassandra takes him through the scullery into a dusty room beyond, and together, they shift the heavy door that's hidden behind piles of pudding basins.

"I'm surprised it still opens," he says.

"I was more surprised that they never found it." She doesn't use the Briarwoods' names unless she has to.

The room beyond is small, light filtering in from a grille high up in the wall, and as his eyes adjust, Percy finally remembers what it's for. He's surprised as well, because there are enough enchanted items in this room to keep a sorcerer busy for a month. "Maybe it's shielded," he says, and makes a mental note to ask Scanlan and Keyleth about it.

"Maybe." Cassandra hasn't quite stepped into the room, as though she's not sure she's allowed in. "I wanted you know it was all still here. All the papers, all the treasures." There's a tremble to her voice that a deep breath doesn't clear. "All the stones."

He'd forgotten about them until she said it, and when she does, his throat tightens. There are amulets in here handed down from de Rolo to de Rolo over the generations. There's enchanted jewellery, spell books that no one can read any more, some once-magical weapons that have probably long-since lost their charms, and the entire genealogy of the de Rolos in endless dusty scrolls. Then there are the boxes of stones.

He finds the shelves after a short search, runs his fingers down the piles of exquisite wooden boxes, with their delicate carving and white stone inlays. Ripley wasn't the first to distill residuum from this land, his ancestors have always done it. It's precious, strong, beautiful and takes enchantment like few other substances he knows. When he finds the box he's looking for, he glances over at Cassandra, who shakes her head.

"I can't. Not yet. Maybe one day." She shakes some of the dust from her skirts and gives him a sad smile. "Happy Winter's Crest, Percy."

"And to you." He watches her go, still not sure if he wants to do this.

The box is one of the lighter-coloured ones and larger, so that he has to set it on the floor to open it safely. Nine pieces of residuum sit snugly in the velvet-lined interior, looking dull and dark in this gloomy room. He still remembers being seven years old and Archibald taking him to Keeper Yennen, his mother and father watching proudly as he set his hand on the stone.

If he thinks about this too much, he won't be able to do it. He sets one finger lightly on the central stone and hears his own voice, childishly high and with just the trace of a lisp that he's long grown out of.

_"Percival Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo the Third."_

If he touches the one to the left, he will hear Vesper. To the right, Oliver. In the other boxes are all the families that came before his, ancestors, cousins, branches that have long died out and others that must still be flourishing. He and Cassandra stand at the end of this line, now.

His legs are getting stiff with cold, and he knows he's going to struggle to get up, the day and the beer, the months, the years, all catching up with him at once. Maybe he'll just sit here on the floor, with the voices of his family, for a little while longer.

 

_(Grog will find him there when he comes down for a midnight top-up._

_"You okay?"_

_That Percy doesn't just say he's fine and tell Grog to sod off will be the first clue that something's wrong. And Grog is really good at clues._

_"What you got there?" he'll say, and Percy will make an odd, thoughful noise before clearing his throat._

_"It's my family."_

_He'll let Grog touch each of the stones in turn, hearing all the dead people talk to him. It'll confirm what Grog already knows about humans being weird, but he'll think it must be kind of nice as well._

_Percy will shrug at that. "Sort of. I suppose." But he still won't touch any more of the stones.)_

 

* * *

 

**4\. The Githyanki Skull**

At least this time, Percy knows it's not actually the skull itself that's talking. That takes one point off the disturbingness total, at least. But by the time you add up the unknown being whose skull it is, the weird emerald eye and the fact that it asked for him specifically, that total is still pretty damn high.

He listens as it speaks, knowing he doesn't have long, knowing that he should have waited for the others. Neither he nor Grog can be trusted with this, he knows that. But he listens, just the same.

Because the frustrating thing is, Grog may have a point. Even Percy is having a hard time wrapping his head around just how much trouble the world is in right now, and this isn't something they can just battle their way out of. They need time and plans and allies. And he doesn't doubt that before this over, they're going to have to do more than one deal with devils.

He just doesn't know if this is the right devil to pick. It's not like he has a good track record with these things.

He hears out the creature in the skull, keeps his gaze fixed on those dead eye sockets. He needs to remember that this is not something he knows or understands, and that for all the bad things he can imagine, this could very well be worse. And that is not something he wants to think about.

The sales pitch ends just before Grog comes back with Vax, and there's barely enough time to put everything back again. It's not that he won't tell them about it, it's just that he needs a moment.

He wonders if having the weight of the world on their shoulders is always going to feel so heavy.

 

_(Right at the point when Percy will think it has long since been forgotten, Grog will bring it up again._

_"Now that you two are, you know," Grog will make a gesture that Percy won't be able to misinterpret, however hard he'll try, "are you gonna ask what she did with that skull?"_

_Percy, who after five years, four dragons, three resurrections, countless battles and continual surprise that he could ever be so lucky, will imagine himself doing so. He has a very good imagination._

_It doesn't go well._

_"No," he will say, and will pretend he doesn't notice that Grog, too, looks relieved.)_

 

* * *

 

**5\. Fenthras**

Fenthras doesn't speak to him exactly. When he pulls it from the ground, something stirs in the back of his mind, somewhere between relief and query. Like all the vestiges, there's something about it that lives, and while it can't form words, Percy's in no doubt that it's speaking to him.

He runs his eyes down the wood of the bow, tracing the contours and carvings. It's an elegant thing. He can imagine it in battle in better hands, the shots it could fire, the certainness of purpose it would give. While his guns are not without refinement, they are not beautiful the way this is beautiful. This sort of thing is not for him. Nothing like this is for him.

The not-voice nudges at him again, more persistent this time. The question feels more urgent, the bow's need to be wielded pulling against his mind.

"No, not me," he says, looking over to where Vex is trying to pull herself back together. "You're someone else's."

 

_(Later, much later, when things are quiet and they have time, Grog and Percy sometimes play a game. There aren't many that they can share on an equal footing, but this is a good one._

_"No, right, cos imagine Pike like whoosh." Grog will mime striking the gauntlets together, and they'll both grin at the idea of a giant Pike, menacing her enemies. "Or Scanlan with those crazy wings."_

_"Or you with a full, magical, magnificent cloak." Percy will tip his head to one side to look up at Grog, who seems to be considering it._

_"Might be my colour," Grog says.)_

 

* * *

**And one that didn't (thank goodness)**

 

**Ripley's first gun**

Down in the bowels of the airship, Grog can hear Percy muttering away to himself, and he follows the sound to a room right at the pointy end. Percy does that sometimes, when he doesn't have anyone else to talk to, but it still creeps Grog out a bit. They've had too much weird stuff around them for him to know for sure that nothing else is there.

He's not exactly trying to creep along, and it's quiet down here, so Percy must hear him when he's only halfway down the corridor. The muttering stops for a moment and Grog keeps going, reaching the door just when it starts up again.

"...more careful. Oh. Hello." Percy looks up, doing a really bad job of pretending to be surprised. "Everything alright up there?"

"Keyleth's doing her thing," Grog says, pulling over a barrel to sit on, because the low ceilings on this ship are no joke when you're his height. "Should be another seventy hours or so."

"It was only going to take-" Closing his eyes, Percy shakes his head. "Never mind. We'll get there when we get there."

"That we will." Grog looks down at the table, where Percy had obviously been working on his gun, that had been Ripley's gun, that had been enchanted, that had been spying on them and that now, apparently, wasn't any more. Honestly, there are some days when Grog wonders how the others manage to keep up. "It doing anything weird?"

"I hope not." Also sitting down again, Percy picks up a long, pointy tool and pokes the gun, but Grog can see his heart isn't in it. "I thought it was better to check, though, just in case."

"No black smoke?" It's as well to be sure of these things. "No strange feelings? No talking?"

"Not that I can tell. Scanlan and Keyleth both checked it over again, and I've taken it apart twice looking for hidden compartments or inscriptions. There's nothing I can see. It's just a gun."

"Good."

They sit in silence for a while, Percy still poking at the gun, and Grog watching Percy. He looks tired. Maybe they all do at this point, but Percy's the one in front of him right now. Percy's also looking at the gun as though he's trying to solve a really difficult puzzle, even though Grog has heard him say this one is nowhere near as good as the one Percy built himself.

Eventually, Grog clears his throat. "You really want her dead, don't you?"

Percy jumps at that, looks guilty for a moment, then frowns. "No. That's what's so strange. I don't think I do. Not any more."

"I thought-"

"It's not that simple. She's my problem." Percy shifts, and it's not from the swaying of the airshop. "I don't want her dead exactly, but I do want her stopped. And I think that means I have to kill her."

"Right," Grog says. "So you do want her dead."

"I didn't say that."

Replaying the conversation in his head takes a bit of effort, but Grog is fairly sure Percy said he had to kill her, and since the only meaning of 'killing' that Grog knows is 'make someone dead', he's also fairly sure that he didn't misunderstand.

"Look," he says, leaning forwards a little, "either you want her to live or you don't. This isn't the sort of question where you get to choose something else if you don't like the answers in front of you. And if you don't want her to live, then you want her dead. No point dressing it up nicely."

Percy is leaning forwards as well, his elbows on the table and his eyes finally lift from the gun to Grog. "No," he says. "I don't suppose there is. Then yes, Grog. I do want her dead."

"Fine. Got it. We'll see what we can do." Grog stands, keeping his head bent so that he doesn't break through to the next deck. "Come on, come see what Keyleth's doing. It's really cool."

With only a moment of hesitation, Percy picks up the gun, stares at it for a moment, then tucks it into its holster. "I'll bring the big gun," he says, picking up Bad News as they leave. "See how many seagulls we can hit."

The final score is five to Grog and three to Percy, but that's only because Vex shot down Percy's fourth with an arrow before he could get it. From the smile that crosses Percy's face, he doesn't seem to mind too much.

 

_(Percy won't think too much about Glintshore in years to come. The mixture of guilt and pain, sorrow and fear will be too much, even with the distance of time. But he will remember having his friends around him, the clear sky above and blue sea below. He'll remember Vex's laugh and Keyleth's disapproval as they took potshots at passing birds. And he'll remember Grog's grin, and the warmth of his hand on Percy's shoulder, grounding him, even from hundreds of feet up in the air.)_

**Author's Note:**

> Do come say hello on Tumblr where I'm also [jadesfire](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/jadesfire)


End file.
